What heavy yokes are cast upon the maid,
Whose fragile shoulders bear a world of stone?
In quiet corners where her dreams are laid,
She fights a silent battle, all alone.
They bid her speak, but only softly so,
And bind her soaring spirit to the earth;
They seek to quench the fire that fain would glow,
And measure out in gold her mortal worth.
Yet mark the tempest brewing in her eye,
A quiet storm that gathers in the dark;
Though fettered by the world, she yearns to fly,
And harbours in her breast a boundless spark.
Let not the foolish world her might disguise,
For empires fall when she doth choose to rise.
The path she treads is overgrown with brier,
And shadows stretch to veil the morning sun;
Yet through the chill, she walks through flood and fire,
Until the cruel and weary day is done.
How oft her noble voice is cast away,
As though a woman’s breath were empty air;
Yet time shall see the breaking of the day,
When she shall claim the crown she ought to wear.
From humble hearths to halls of tow’ring might,
Her steadfast step shall conquer ev'ry woe;
She turns the darkest midnight into light,
And teaches barren deserts how to grow.
Thus sing the truth, that all the earth may see:
Her spirit is, and ever shall be, free.

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